Addiction
by Lucrezia-Farnese
Summary: One-shot on how Eomer finds his addiction to war a hard one to break, despite being married and finding himself in an ever growing family life. His fears are his concern as he watches that which is precious to him. An insight into the thoughts of a king.


_A/N - Don't even ask me how this idea came to my head. Hope it is enjoyable, for it is purely a one-shot - came straight from my mind to screen._

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It would be the hardest goodbye Eomer would ever make, even worse than saying goodbye to his own sister many years ago during the Great War. As Third Marshal, he had grown accustomed to riding out to battle at the whim of an order from his king. Now he was king, and even more importantly, he was also a husband and a father.

A father.

Eomer stood up on the battlements of Edoras, watching a small figure running through the grass below. His son and heir, Elfwine, a boy of three summers was chasing butterflies under the watchful eye of his nurse. Elfwine was Eomer's entire life - his pride and joy of siring such a lad. Eomer smiled as he saw Elfwine jump up and down with excitement of almost catching one. A tiny scream left his mouth, his hands clapping enthusiastically. The prince was a very active little boy, keeping his nurse on her toes during his waking hours. Eomer turned and looked up at Meduseld, knowing his wife, Lothiriel, was resting in bed, heavy with child. Lothiriel wanted another son; a companion for Elfwine, but secretly, Eomer wanted a daughter, a sweet little golden princess for the Mark.

Despite the pleasantries family life brought Eomer, his thoughts caused a twinge in his throat. He feared that once he rode out to deal with the stirring rebel wild men, there would be that gruelling chance he may not return. Yes, he was a king, but even kings were mortal. His late uncle was proof that a King of the Riddermark could perish in battle. Eomer ran his fingers through his long hair, feeling the stress starting to rise within him. Any other time in his life, he would not have hesitated to ride out in the defence of his land and people; back then, it was his duty to do so. Even though it was still his duty nowadays, he had other duties he found more important: his wife, his son, and the people who looked to him for guidance. It was a fear he would never speak of to anyone, not even his own wife, mainly because he somewhat felt ashamed for being afraid of dying. He knew he was not being selfish; he had very good reasons to live, and they were not because he enjoyed life. If he died, Elfwine would grow up without a father, Lothiriel would be a widow, given the heavy burden of acting as regent on behalf of their son, and worst of all his people would be left without the guidance of a king. They were mostly family reasons, but these days, Eomer was a family man. His war driven days were over; they ended the day his son was born, for Eomer swore always to be there for Elfwine as a father, friend, and mentor.

"Papa, papa!" Elfwine shouted, waving his arms up at his father from below. "I catch, I catch!" The little prince had a butterfly clutched in one of his hands, dead now. Eomer chuckled, feeling sorry for the butterfly; he knew how strong Elfwine's grasps had become recently as the boy continued to grow. "Catch me, Papa!"

Eomer took this challenge to heart, taking two steps at a time down to the grass field. As his father grew closer, Elfwine screamed with delight, turning on his heels, running away. Eomer laughed, chasing him at a slow pace to make the boy think he was an able runner.

"Gotcha!" Eomer took a few long strides, gently grasping his son around the waist. He picked Elfwine up, and swung him around, the boy giggling with delight.

"Again, again!" Elfwine insisted, after being placed back down.

Eomer ruffled his son's fair hair. "Not now, my son. Come, the hour grows late."

Elfwine moaned with disappointment. "Don't want to go!"

Eomer raised his eyebrows at his son, eyeing him sternly. Elfwine lowered his head, knowing his father was being serious; the fun was over. He held onto his nurse's hand, walking ahead of his father.

Once at the top of Meduseld, Eomer paused and turned to look out at the lands before him - his lands. He sighed heavily, knowing that once he stepped inside, he would have to inform Lothiriel of his decision to ride out to the Westfold to put a stop to the gathering of the wild men who had turn against their peace treaty. She would hate the idea; especially as she was due to deliver their second child any day now. Eventually she would accept it; Eomer knew that. But leaving his growing family pained him deeply, but he was not going to let it get in the way of his pride amongst his men.

Despite his new fears, he was going to lead his men, and he was going to lead the charge, call the commands, make the orders, throw the first spear, and slice the first enemy. It was his nature; a nature that was like an addiction. He could tame it whilst at home, but out in the field it was a force to be reckoned with.

Eomer just hoped his senses would remain clear, for they had the nerve-racking ability to leave him all together in the combat zone.

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_A/N - Is it obvious I enjoy writing Eomer one-shots? ;)_


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